FW 1941: Centre of Gravity
by Wolseley37
Summary: Staff shortages force Foyle into a dangerous solo investigation, and the Hastings Station must mobilize when he goes missing.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** FW 1941: Centre of Gravity

**Author:** Wolseley37

**Content:** Friendship / loyalty / danger / adventure

**Rating:** General

**Disclaimer:** Foyle's War was created and written by Anthony Horowitz. No infringement is intended, no profit is made. Just borrowing the characters and premise.

**A/N:** First began writing this in July 2007 and shared it on the Quietly Enigmatic Forum's FWFF, posted October - November 2007.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

In the end Foyle had had to set off from the station alone.

His sergeant was at the hospital interviewing the curiously laconic man who had survived the road accident; there were no constables immediately on hand; he had even asked for the police photographer, but learned he was busy at the scene of the lorry crash that had started all of this late yesterday afternoon. And, finally, the car that was meant to be at his disposal had been taken by the new Inspector in Uniform Branch. Sam, more than a little disgruntled at having to wait idly at the station while he departed via taxi, had promised to follow him to the warehouses at Rye as soon as the car was returned.

The frustrations of doing this job under these Wartime conditions – understaffed and apparently now underequipped – were wearing on his nerves.

Gazing out the cab window, he had an uncomfortable feeling that his abrupt manner on departure might have suggested to Sam that he felt the missing Wolseley had been her fault. Of course he didn't, but he _had_ been rather curt…

Foyle admitted to himself he was uneasy approaching this investigation without another officer; the crashed lorry – with a secret compartment full of contraband – had been traced to the warehouses where he was about to interview the manager and foreman. Although the immediate purpose was simply to establish this link, without mentioning the hidden cargo, his instinct told him they would be wary and likely to put up an indignant, perhaps aggressive front.

It would have been more appropriate for a lower-ranking officer to start this line of inquiry; his high rank could have the effect of panicking the suspects. However, if he were to tread carefully – the driver might have been acting alone, but he doubted it – he would gather enough information to warrant escalating the investigation and bringing in more officers to conduct a full search of the company's records and premises.

At ten o'clock the taxi dropped him at the open gates to the property at the end of Rock Channel Road; no one was about in the yard surrounding the two large warehouses; beyond them he could see a very active pier and boats docked for unloading. A large-lettered sign directed all visitors to the Manager's Office on the first floor of a small building to the left of the gate. With the chill October wind whipping his coat around his legs, he made his way up the stairs.

* * *

It was half-past ten when the Wolseley was brought back to the station, and Sam didn't hesitate to let the Inspector know that Mr. Foyle had left _by taxi_ to conduct interviews of _dangerous suspects_. She arrived at the address in Rye at eleven, parked the car within the gates, and, assuming he would come down when he'd finished the interviews, waited some ten minutes. Then she had second thoughts and decided it would be best to let him know she was there.

Sam went up the outside stairs to the Manager's Office. There was no secretary at the front desk, but through the glass and a partly open door she could see into the main office where a thin, balding man was speaking on a telephone while consulting a map. As she waited she surreptitiously glanced over the letters and papers on the desk, and took note of the name on the door, Mr. G. Ransley. She overheard half a brief conversation, something about moving an elderly woman, judging by the old-fashioned name – perhaps his mother or an aunt, she speculated – to another place; then the man had glanced up and seen her smiling patiently at him. Sam saw that he flinched in surprise. He mumbled something into the phone and put it down quickly.

Rising and coming round the side of his desk, he asked,  
"Yes? What can I do for you?"

"I'm here to collect Mr. Foyle. I'm his driver."

"Who?"

"Detective Chief Superintendent Foyle, of the Hastings Police."

"Dunno what you're talking about, miss."

"Well, he came here this morning to make inquiries; he must be here somewhere."

"Inquiries into what?"

"Er… inquiries connected to the lorry that crashed on the Udimore Road yesterday afternoon. Are you saying you haven't spoken with him?"

"Haven't spoken with him; haven't seen him. Are you sure you've got the right address, miss?"

"Yes, quite sure. Perhaps he went straight to the warehouses. I'll just have a look there, shall I?"

"No, you shan't. I'll escort you down."

Outside the entryway to the cavernous warehouse – Sam had got no further under the watchful eye of the Manager – the foreman was polite but unyielding,  
"We've seen no policeman down here, miss."

"Well, do you mind if I look round the works yard for him myself? I've been waiting quite a –."

"Oh no, miss, I can't let you do that; it's not safe. This is no place for a young lady to wander – heavy apparatus, lorries coming and going, cranes slinging cargo."

"But how shall I –?"

Mr. Ransley spoke up,  
"Look, we'll send one of the lads to do a search. You go and wait in your car. But I really don't think he's been here."

Ransley took her elbow firmly and steered her away from the warehouse, then watched that she did not turn back. As she walked away she heard the great door being pulled across and clanged shut.

Turning to round the corner of the smaller building, Sam spotted a young boy carrying a wooden crate.

"I say, excuse me."

"Yes, miss?" He paused, shifting the weight of the heavy load in his arms.

"Did you, by any chance, see my boss anywhere about, just now? A policeman in a camel coat and a dark trilby hat?"

"No, miss."

"Well, Mr. Ransley said he hadn't seen him, and I thought perhaps he was interviewing some of the men," she gestured towards the warehouse, "but they say he's not there."

"Did you speak to the foreman, Mr. Elphick?"

"Yes. He told me he knew nothing about it, that he hadn't seen him either."

"That is strange, but I haven't seen him, miss."

"But– he must be here …somewhere." She put her hand to her forehead, confused.

"I can't help you, miss; but no one's to wander round here without permission – or without an escort."

"Well, I can't very well leave without him; could you take me round? My name's Sam; what's yours?"

The boy looked worried for a moment, then gave in to the expression of appeal on her face,  
"_Er_… Just let me set this down. Wait here. …I'm Fred." he said over his shoulder as he carried the crate through the door to the ground floor of the building.

Fred guided Sam between the two large warehouses to look over the docks where there was a lot of confusing activity of boats being unloaded and cargo being shifted. The men carried on their work quite undisturbed; there was no sign of Mr. Foyle.

Sam wouldn't have noticed, but Fred remarked that it was odd that the old 'Belle' was leaving. He gestured towards the water where a largish boat was making its way down the narrow channel of the river, towing a small boat behind it.

Sam asked,  
"Why is that odd?"

"Well, she hasn't moved since I've been here."

"Can you make out the crew?"

The boy shook his head; she was about to ask how long he'd worked for Mr. Ransley, when an angry voice hailed them,  
"Oy! Fred, what do you think you're doing?"

"Just helping this lady to find her boss, Mr. Elphick."

Sam spoke up,  
"It's my fault; I asked Fred to take me round. I didn't mean to get him into trouble."

"Look, no one's seen this Mr. Foyle anywhere here. Have you seen him, Fred?"

"No, sir."

"I sent a man to look, as Mr. Ransley told you we would, and there's no sign of him, all right? Now, I think you should go, miss; before you get hurt. Fred, get back to work."

"Yes, sir. Sorry, miss."

The boy trotted off and the foreman took hold of her arm none too gently, and walked her all the way to the door of the Wolseley.

"Look, please don't blame Fred; I asked him to help me."

"Get in."

She started the engine and manoeuvred the car in reverse through the gates. As she shifted into forward gear, Sam paused to glance at the empty seat beside her, and then stared out through the side window into the warehouse yard, helplessly and with a disbelieving expression. How could she return alone to the station? What on earth would she say to Sgt. Milner – that she'd _lost_ Mr. Foyle?

tbc...


	2. Chapter 2

Floating in a strange place between unconsciousness and consciousness, Foyle slowly gained awareness of a variety of sensations: a rhythmic, convoluted, swaying, rocking motion that he was nearly certain did not originate internally. This was punctuated by a dull jarring thump every so often; there was a wet gurgling, splashing sound and a smell of diesel, damp wood and canvas. The rather irritating bumping sensation brought to the fore a blinding pain in his head.

In a rush he recalled the interview with the Manager, Mr. Ransley, the tour through the workyard, and the unexpected confrontation with the warehousemen in the foreman's office; he attempted to sit up and open his eyes.

This was ill-advised, for the sudden action of lifting his head brought the pain to a sharp crescendo accompanied by flashing dancing fireworks on an expanding rim of blackness in his peripheral vision. He lay back with an involuntary groan, and compressed his lips, breathing hard to quell a wave of nausea.

Some noise had disturbed him – he sensed the impression of a rapid, heavy, hammering that had shaken the bunk he lay on – and then ceased before he was quite conscious.

Lying still, gathering together the varied evidence assailing his physical senses, he came to the conclusion that he was on a boat, and from the frequency and lightness of its rocking he judged it was a small one. But not underway – nor adrift, thank god – the thumping and jarring was the craft's motion against and then away from, on the length of its lines, whatever it was tethered to.

Foyle opened his eyes to the dim swaying interior of what might be a sailing boat cabin: he lay on a side berth opposite a little galley and before him was a short ladder leading to a closed companionway and hatch. In preparation to sitting up again, he eased one leg off the coarse blanket covering the mattress, and his foot plunged up to the ankle into shockingly cold water.

"_Christ!_"

The likely danger he was facing surged in upon him and spurred his motivation to clear his head. He rolled cautiously up into a sitting position on the edge of the berth, letting the other foot settle into the icy water. It was somewhat bracing.

With one hand he felt the sticky wet patch on the back of his head and decided he would live, despite the congealed blood on his fingers. Forcing his vision to focus, he peered out through the small porthole; this told him very little, but confirmed visually, via the rising and falling view of dark grey rocks, what he already felt, and renewed the nausea.

Foyle got to his feet, grasping various supports, and made his way unsteadily to the companionway. He rattled the door which, predictably, was locked on the outside. The hatch would neither slide back nor push upwards. He looked about for something strong or heavy and found, tucked into one of the built-in pocket shelves, a kind of billy club used for bashing fish on the head – perhaps what they'd used on his.

He applied it vigorously to the brass door set and succeeded in knocking the little handle right off, but after forcing out the lock with his pocket knife, found the door was somehow further secured by the hatch cover. No amount of bashing or shoving on either structure made the slightest difference, so he looked about again. The water, meanwhile, had risen a little higher over his ankles.

In the flooded storage compartment under the berth he found a very long, rusty screwdriver and tried it at various angles, prying, levering and prodding the hatch and small door. He eventually got some movement from the hatch cover; by working at it diligently, ignoring the throbbing pain in his head but keenly aware of the icy water sloshing around his feet, he managed to pry up several screws in the planking, enough to knock the cover out of its track. He forced it upwards with his shoulder, and this released the door.

A fresh wind buffeted him as he crept up out of the cabin into the cockpit and looked around: the boat was tied to rusted iron rings set in a long concrete block lying amongst the rocks of a high breakwater. Looking over the bow to seaward the first thing to catch his eye, and this was a bit of luck, was the diminishing stern of a boat speeding away; he could just make out a large initial letter C and some smaller letters spelling out the name on the transom. Its course, he thought, must be south-eastward.

Of more immediate concern was his own position.

He waited as the sailboat drifted out on its lines from the breakwater, and after it stretched them taut, jerked, and began edging inwards again, he pulled on the aft line to bring in the stern. Foyle judged his moment to climb over the side and step onto the nearest rock, slick with green sea growth, lapped by choppy waves, and then he clambered higher to sit on a safer perch. Pausing there to assess his predicament, he looked at his watch and saw that the time was nearing five in the afternoon. He decided to proceed on the premise that it was the same day, as his watch had not stopped, and, running a hand over his jaw, his beard was negligible.

He had lost his hat and the autumn air was harsh on his lacerated scalp. The back of his shirt collar was damp, but he wasn't about to make an effort to see how blood-soaked it really was. As he had lain unconscious the cold had seeped into his limbs, and now his feet were numb, his shoes and socks and the bottoms of his trousers thoroughly wet. The lower edge of his coat was dripping. He scrubbed his face wearily with both hands and discovered a painful, swollen bruise over his left cheekbone.

Five in the afternoon and the tide was at full flow…

Sam would certainly have followed to the warehouses and discovered him missing some six or seven hours ago. He could only pray that they hadn't seen her as a further threat, and had merely shown her off the premises with a parcel of lies and evasions. And he had faith that Sam would recognise the danger and withdraw, that she would go to get help…unlike himself.

It would be up to those at the station to begin a search for him. So – where was he?

Foyle looked up at the tall, unscalable white cliffs towering over the shingle, and then scanned west and east, along the miles of narrow beach, seeing no ready access to the land above. At the base of the chalk cliffs were concrete anti-landing defences linked by coiling strands of barbed wire – evidence, even in this remote place, of the war and the efforts to defend the Island. No pillboxes were visible along the beach, but he was quite certain there would be gun emplacements atop the cliffs. It was more likely that he would be fired upon than rescued.

Shivering in the light wind coming off the water, Foyle racked his brain to think of where on the south coast this place could possibly be. 

* * *

Sam had stopped at the nearest public house to use the telephone and make an urgent call to Paul Milner at the station; he had arrived with two constables as soon as a car was available, having instructed the Desk Sergeant, Brooke, to send anyone who could be freed from other duties as soon as possible.

In a brief consultation outside the pub, Milner told Sam he had confirmed with the taxi company: Mr. Foyle had been dropped at the address of the Shanklin Warehouses at ten that morning, and no taxi had been dispatched to return there. Though she said nothing, Milner could see by the almost stricken expression on her face that she felt responsible.

He took her aside out of the hearing of the constables,  
"Sam, this is not your fault; do you understand? No one could have predicted this."

Her lower lip trembled and her voice was quiet,  
"If I'd kept an eye on the car, the Inspector wouldn't have taken it. Mr. Foyle wouldn't have had to come here alone. If I'd been with him, they couldn't have–."

"We don't know what they've done, Sam. But we'll need all available eyes and ears to find out."

She nodded her response, then met his eyes and lifted her chin resolutely.

"Good. Now, come on."

It was after one o'clock when the two police vehicles entered the yard. Milner directed his driver to park so as to block the gate. After the expected denials and protests from the Manager, they searched the entire office building and then moved down into the first warehouse where Milner ordered the constables to cover every square inch. As the sergeant interviewed Mr. Elphick, Constable Dale interrupted to summon him into the foreman's office: he had found a recently-washed patch on the concrete floor and a damp, red-stained scrap of cloth in the wastebasket. They both agreed that it looked to be blood.

Two more officers arrived, having left their car outside the gates, and they were briefed and instructed to enter the second warehouse. All work in the place soon ceased as the warehousemen and dockmen gathered together to watch the policemen.

Sam kept out of the way to allow the officers to do their job, but when she noticed young Fred in a group of workmen, she signalled him aside and asked quietly,  
"Fred, you're absolutely sure you didn't see Mr. Foyle? You can tell me, you know, and you won't get into trouble because you're helping the police."

"I never saw him, miss…" The boy, about fourteen years of age, looked uncertain.

Sam prompted him,  
"But you saw something…?"

He glanced fearfully into her eyes and she drew him further aside; when the foreman took a step towards them, Milner stepped into his way, and she walked the boy out of the warehouse and back between the two buildings.

"What did you see, Fred?"

"Well, I never thought anything of it, you know, but I saw two of the men, George and Tom, carrying something heavy between them down to the dock."

"What did it look like?"

"I only glanced at them, but… I thought it was a large rolled canvas tarp. It sagged in the middle, you know."

Sam felt a frisson of fear run through her.  
"Did you see where they carried it?"

"No – just that they were heading for the dock; and Mr. Elphick followed them."

"Thank-you, Fred. And I think you'd best stay near me; let's find the Sergeant."

Sam repeated to Milner what the boy had said, and he summoned the foreman to question him. The Manager, Ransley, looking increasingly angry and impatient at the disruption, insisted on hearing the interview, but Milner ordered him to keep back.

From a safe distance Sam and her young companion saw Mr. Elphick shrug his shoulders and shake his head, but eventually he led the sergeant out onto the small pier where he gestured towards the two boats. Milner called one of the constables to board the nearest vessel.

It was after two o'clock; the tidal river was just beginning to rise from its lowest ebb. The boat lay below the level of the pier, so the policeman descended a ladder to reach the gunwale and step down onto the main deck. A second constable soon joined him in the search.

Ransley called out from the door of the warehouse,  
"Look Sergeant, this really is too much; how do you know this Mr. Foyle of yours didn't change his mind at the gates and walk down the road to the nearest pub?"

Milner kept his cool,  
"Well, we'll certainly check into that when we're finished here, Mr. Ransley. Can you find the two men, George and Tom, and bring them to me?"

Ransley turned to walk back into the building as the other constables reported from the second warehouse,  
"Not in there, sir."

"Right. You men board this boat and search it thoroughly; bring out any tarps you may find. Mr. Elphick, open that shed."

A four by six-foot tool shed stood at the end of the pier with a padlock on the hasp. The foreman reluctantly went to it and unlocked the door. Milner re-positioned the larger objects inside, but found nothing of importance; certainly there was no canvas tarp. Just then he heard an exclamation from the boy standing with Sam.

"Sir! There's something under the pier!"

Before Milner could re-join them the boy had scrambled down to the mud of the shoreline; he scrabbled up quickly clutching an object Milner recognised immediately with a sickening lurch to his stomach.

Beside him he heard Sam gasp as she touched his arm for support,  
"Paul, its Mr. Foyle's hat…"

The boy handed it to him.

"Well done, Fred."

Ransley approached without the requested workmen,  
"George and Tom aren't here… They must've –." He saw the muddied hat and stopped in his tracks; Milner read the guilt and fear in his eyes.

"Where have they taken him, Mr. Ransley?"

Sam was calmed by the steady firmness of his voice; they would find him.

Ransley shifted uneasily, shaking his head in denial, and bluffed,  
"No, the lads've just –."

Fred, with a sudden idea, spoke up bravely,  
"Where's the 'Clara Belle,' Mr. Ransley?"

The man glared down at him; the boy turned away to look up at Paul Milner,  
"They must've gone on the 'Belle,' sir."

tbc...


	3. Chapter 3

Foyle had rejected the idea of following the beach in search of a footpath up to a road; it might be miles of difficult trudging, under the looming vertical cliffs and the threat of the high tide. He had listened hard for any sounds of military vehicles or farm machinery or even livestock to indicate the possibility of help nearby, but could hear nothing above the rush of surf onto the shingle. It would soon be dusk, with cloud cover and no moon, and he didn't care for the idea of stumbling about blindly in the dark, risking long exposure to the deepening cold.

So he had cast his lot with the best means of escape and the only shelter at hand: the sailing boat. Nothing was seriously amiss from what he could see on the outside; he was convinced that the hammering he had vaguely heard before fully re-gaining consciousness was the attempt to scuttle the boat by a person or persons unknown. He would have to try to repair its leak, pump out the bilge and assess its seaworthiness.

Climbing aboard again he found the boat had indeed settled a little lower in the water. Pulling up the deck hatch in the cockpit revealed a disconcerting level of sea water in the deep bilge, and the obvious source of the problem. An auxiliary engine had been removed some time ago – the sturdy engine-bed timbers were underwater – but the thru-hull passage for the shaft to the propeller, which had once been properly filled, patched and caulked, was now exposed and freshly punched through. The small geyser of incoming water was submerged but active. He didn't have much time.

Accepting that things would have to get worse before they got better, Foyle removed his watch and shoved it into the pocket of his topcoat, quickly removed that and laid it across the cambered coach roof. He ducked through the companionway and stepped down into the icy water flooding the cabin. He opened the access to the engine compartment and to the bilge, and retrieved whatever tools he could find.

Armed with the long screwdriver, a hammer and chisel, and the wooden club, he returned to the cockpit. In the lazarette he found fittings for the hand-operated bilge pump and a coil of oakum, coarse and hairy, but of course there would be no hot tar to seal things properly.

There was now a distinct wallowing quality to the boat's movement, and it seemed prudent to try to put the pump, fixed at the top to the inner freeboard, into service before doing anything else. Seated in the cockpit, he screwed the brass end of the discharge hose into the upper opening of the pump and hung the free end over the gunwale. Standing again for a better purchase, he took hold of the handle, gave a tentative upward pull and was pleased with the response – there was no sound of incoming air to indicate a defect; several more firm pulls produced a copious and steady gush over the side. He worked at it until the water in the bilge had cleared and the boat had regained its proper buoyancy.

Foyle sat down to catch his breath. Things weren't nearly as dire as they had been, and now he was considerably warmed by the exercise. He gazed over the weather-worn mahogany planks and beyond the sturdy, rocking mast to the open sea; with the salt breeze ruffling his hair, he thought he could almost smell the comforting fragrant smoke of his grandfather's pipe. 

* * *

The sergeant had called the constables out of the cargo holds of the two boats, and had read Ransley and Elphick their rights. Despite having interrogated them separately, neither man would answer his questions, and so it seemed they were at a stalemate. He advised the throng of waiting workmen that the business's operations were suspended, and that after their names and statements were taken down they could go home. Only one man admitted to having seen a visitor matching Foyle's description enter the foreman's office.

Milner was reluctant to leave the warehouse property – it was the last place of Mr. Foyle's known whereabouts and he didn't want to miss any possible clue as to the direction in which to search for him. However, as Ransley and Elphick remained stony-faced and silent here on their own territory, Milner began to see that a home turf advantage at the station might intimidate them and loosen their tongues. He would also be better able to make calls to the south coast Life Boat Societies, Coast Guard, Home Guard and other police stations to keep a watch out for the 'Clara Belle.' As dusk approached there was little more he and the constables could do.

Though the tide was rising and the river would soon be navigable again, no boat would attempt to enter the channel in the Blackout. It was unlikely that the 'Clara Belle' would return this evening; nonetheless he stationed two constables to keep watch, in case of an early morning reappearance. The manager and foreman were formally arrested and taken into custody, and the contingent from the Hastings Constabulary departed for home.

tbc...


	4. Chapter 4

It had taken Foyle nearly half an hour to fashion a plug, chiselled and carved out of the hardwood club, then he'd pumped the bilge again, fit the plug to the hole in the hull, winding strands of oakum around the length of it to make it snug and watertight, and then to hammer it in place. He had given the pump a final go and seen that the repair was successful.

However, the ceaseless bobbing and rocking of the boat, while he had lain prone with his head in the bilge, had turned his stomach, and he had needed to get back onto the solid unmoving rocks for a few minutes' respite. Though he had discarded his tie and jacket and worked with his sleeves rolled up, he couldn't avoid soaking the front of his waistcoat and shirt. Despite all this, for the moment he was not uncomfortable, sitting up on the breakwater, his muscles warmed again by the effort of his labours; though he did feel that even a spam sandwich from the station kitchen would be quite welcome.

Surprisingly, the evening clouds had thinned to show a cheering patch of blue here and there, and the sea was only rolling with swells. As his equilibrium reasserted itself he surveyed the craft he intended to trust his life to: it was a twenty-foot gaff rigged sloop, in better condition than its outward appearance had suggested.

He doubted he could handle it on his own under full sail – too many years had passed since that last golden, pre-war summer with his grandfather and his patient lessons on proper management of spars, sheets and halyards – however, he might manage to get somewhere with just the main sail up. That is, if the sails were stowed somewhere on board.

Unfortunately, the sun was perhaps an hour from setting and the shadow of the cliffs had fallen over him; he could still make out the time - he'd retrieved his watch from his topcoat and it was nearing six – but he knew there would be no lighthouse beacons or signals, no distant twinkle of seaside village streetlamps, nothing to navigate by at all. He resigned himself to the fact that he would be spending the night on the boat.

And then he slowly turned… and looked up at the darkening cliffs again: the sun had set _behind_ them, to his right. Not before him, as it should have done. He had thought he was sat facing west. This stretch of coastline was not running east-west at all: it was north-south, with the breakwater, perpendicular to the shore, jutting out eastward, and he was facing south.

He considered this new fact for a moment and applied his geographical knowledge to it: the location looked nothing like Bognor Regis, nor the cliffs below Eastbourne, which he knew well. It wasn't the stretch between Fairlight Cove and Cliff End: the rock and shingle colour were wrong. It looked like nothing he remembered, and somehow it didn't feel right either.

He hadn't paid attention to the view across the channel, as the late afternoon conditions weren't favourable for visibility; and he had sat on the breakwater with his back to what he now understood to be north – he looked over his left shoulder out to sea, but it was too nearly dark to tell what lay over there. The boat that had sped away, perhaps back to the warehouses at Rye, must have been heading north-east, he recalculated.

As he preferred an early morning start, and also anticipating that he might feel physically worse after a night aboard, he decided he'd best begin his preparations now, before he lost the light. He began an inventory of possibly useful things, first making his way forward to the bow locker to see what was there, and found it curiously empty, the anchor and chain presumably turned in for salvage.

Inside the cabin, which would have been quite snug if it hadn't recently been flooded, he looked for anything to make his night more comfortable. Under the dampish wool blanket on the cot, he discovered what he had been lying on: the canvas sails, three of them neatly rolled side by side. He smiled with relief at the real possibility of sailing home.

Then he came up with a rather surprising bit of luck: the little galley stove actually had a small quantity of paraffin in the reservoir; had it been overlooked when the boat had been put into storage? Or had someone recently spent time on the boat at dock? His suspicion was confirmed when he discovered the little tin coffee pot with used grounds in the filter. When he found a packet of coffee and a chipped mug in the upper cupboard and a jug of water in the lower one, he lit the stove and began to brew himself a hot drink.

There was also the little cast iron wood- and coal-burning heater, which ought to have been handed in for salvage along with its chimney pipe, but he was very glad it had not. He hadn't any coal, but he had the shavings and remainder of the wooden club; to augment this, he would sacrifice some of the boat's cabin fixtures to feed a fire.

Foyle stooped to examine the heater, but when he opened the little iron door, he found the interior was already full: there was a leather bag stuffed into the space. He pulled it out, untied the drawstring top, and gazed with some satisfaction at bundles of banknotes that perhaps amounted to four thousand pounds. It was good to know that he could still contribute to the investigation, even if he was missing in action. 

* * *

Milner had had a bad night – after making the calls from his office, he had returned to the cells to interrogate the two prisoners again, with no success. It was very late when he finally left for home, still debating with himself about notifying the next Superintendent or Chief Constable nearer London, of Mr. Foyle's disappearance, despite the advice from the Uniform Branch Inspector to wait.

He had hardly slept, and when Sam called for him in the Wolseley shortly after dawn, he saw that she had fared no better. They were both grim and quiet during the short drive, Sam unwilling to voice the fears that had, overnight, drained the colour from her cheek and left dark smudges under her eyes.

At the station the tension in the air was tangible; constables stood in groups of two or three, talking in low undertones and waiting to be given something to do. The thought that their Chief had been kidnapped while carrying out duties one of them should more properly have done, had roused feelings of loyalty expressed as outrage and indignation, accompanied by a sullen remorse and guilt. Each man wanted to be the one to find the vital clue that would lead them to the place Mr. Foyle was being held; not one expressed a doubt that he would be found alive.

Milner wasted no time in having first Elphick and then Ransley brought up to the interrogation room, but despite intense strategic questioning, and laying out the evidence against them – including the cargo discovered in the hidden compartment of the lorry – and the charges and likely consequences each would be facing, he could get nothing from them. He thought their smuggling operations must be quite extensive to warrant such defiance and to drive them to risk so much.

The two constables left on watch at the warehouses called in with nothing to report; Milner advised them that they would be relieved within the hour. He was organising a squad to accompany him to further search the property when a call came from Eastney that the 'Clara Belle' had just been sighted, moving on an eastward course. Certain she was returning to Rye, Milner adjusted his plans and assembled the available men for a briefing.

tbc...


	5. Chapter 5

Foyle had woken just before daybreak with stiff, aching limbs, feeling groggy and hungry, but he was not cold – the fire in the heater had lasted long enough to warm the cabin until he fell asleep, and he had wrapped himself in layers of canvas sail, his topcoat, and the wool blanket. If any warplanes had flown over in the night, he had not heard them for he had, in fact, slept deeply. He rose and lit the stove again, prepared the coffee and set the little pot to percolate, then inspected the bilge, which was acceptably dry. He donned his jacket and salt-stained topcoat and went above to see what the weather promised.

It would be one of those rare October days that offered a last taste of summer: though the air was crisp, the sky was clear blue and the sun would be generous with its warmth and brightness.

_'A fine day to be out on the water,'_ he mused ironically, sipping hot black coffee from the chipped mug and watching the rising sun cast sparkles on the dancing waves. He noted that the tide was high again, and that the morning light still revealed no obvious means of reaching help via the shore. Nor did he recognise the stretch of coastline to the north, despite the present clarity of the view; with its bays and points foreshortened by the distance, he still could not identify where he was.

The next hour he spent wrestling the heavy mainsail into position along the boom, working at the fastenings to it and to the gaff, and testing the lines of the rigging. When he got the mainsail partly raised the wind caught it, heeled the boat over rather more than it ought, and he realised there was a problem: with the engine removed there was a lack of ballast to counteract the pull of the wind in the sails. He would need more weight in the bilge, placed over the keel, to lower the boat's centre of gravity, otherwise he risked capsizing.

As he dropped the sail Foyle momentarily succumbed to a deep discouragement. The difficulty of lifting heavy rocks from the breakwater onto the rolling boat deck and then into the hold was a task he did not feel up to; if he did attempt it, he was certain to injure himself through strain or accident. Yet he felt he had no choice: he _would not_ simply sit and wait for rescue.

He climbed out onto the breakwater again and pondered this challenge for some moments, then, with a quiet exclamation, he remembered the gaff spar – it could be used as a boom to lift and swing the rocks aboard. The rigging was properly in place, and he could fashion a cargo net out of the canvas foresail.

He set to work again with renewed energy.

* * *

Travelling along Rock Channel Road on the approach to the warehouse property, with two cars following behind, Milner was puzzled to see a number of other police vehicles parked within and outside the gates.

One of the constables in the rear seat remarked,

"Well, well, well, what's all this, then?"

"Looks like the cavalry's decided to make an appearance." He answered quietly.

He was of two minds about this development: while he _did_ want as much help as possible to find his Chief as quickly as possible, he_ did not_ want the case taken out of his hands by a more senior officer.

After Sam got the Wolseley parked, he climbed out and was met by two unfamiliar officers, who drew him aside for a confidential discussion.

"Detective Sergeant Milner? How do you do? I'm Inspector John Mullen of the Brighton station, and this," he indicated the younger man beside him, "is Detective Inspector Hutton of Seaford. We want to offer you any support we can give you in this matter."

"What have you heard, Inspector Mullen?" Milner asked warily.

The two men exchanged a glance.

"Well, the truth is, what we've heard is only through the grapevine: that Mr. Foyle has gone missing; that he was conducting inquiries here, and has disappeared. We want to help."

Milner considered this for a moment, and as he opened his mouth to respond, Mullen reassured him,

"Look, neither of us is thinking of taking over – this is your patch, Sergeant. It's only that Mr. Foyle, well… he was a strong influence on us both early in our careers. We want him found."

Hutton spoke up,

"Y-yes, you see, I wouldn't have stuck with the police if it hadn't been for Mr. Foyle. Can you understand that, Mr. Milner?"

The sergeant gave a faint wry smile,

"Yes, I think I can understand."

He looked them both in the eye,

"Well then, let me bring you both up to speed. We have reason to believe that a boat called the 'Clara Belle' is involved; it departed from here yesterday morning, at the time of Mr. Foyle's disappearance, and I've had word from Eastney that it's been spotted heading back in this direction – I've ordered that it not be apprehended while underway."

"That could lose us valuable time."

"Nonetheless, I want it to return here –."

"What is your reasoning on that?"

"I've brought the two prime suspects in the second car – the Manger and Foreman. I haven't been able to get anything out of them at the station, so I thought a longer exposure to the police investigation, and separating them as we search the property again, while we wait for the boat, may provoke one of them into a reaction – one may let something slip. If not, then the two men on the boat, seeing their leader in handcuffs when they return –."

Barnaby and Hutton exchanged another look and the older man nodded,

"A bit unorthodox, but it may be effective. God knows searching the entire south coast, from here to Southampton, is impractical. How much longer can you hold them in custody?"

"Until five, but I intend to lay charges before then."

"Right. What can we do?" Hutton asked.

"Do either of you have commercial crime experience?"

"Yes," said Hutton, "I can go over the books, the shipping and receiving records, anything on paper – or not on paper."

"Good, I'd appreciate that as it's not my strong suit; Mr. Foyle usually looks into that sort of thing. All I've determined is that the owner and manager of Shanklin Warehouses suffered a stroke last spring, is only recovering slowly, and has no obvious successors; the operation has continued because of its usefulness to the war, with the bankers overseeing it until its future is sorted out. Since then, Ransley seems to have had a free hand in the management."

Milner added,

"Oh, and if you could find any information on the boat, the 'Clara Belle.' It's not part of the company fleet. Why was it here to begin with?"

The young Inspector accepted the order, suppressing a smile,

"Very good, sergeant."

They decided that Mullen would take Elphick and observe him while constables went over his office inside the first warehouse with a fine toothed comb, and then search the lorries within the yard; Milner would take Ransley down to the docks where the other boats would be searched again.

Hutton was eager to make a start, and gestured to one of his men to accompany him, but just as they all were to go their various ways, Milner spotted Sam approaching hurriedly with the boy Fred.

"Excuse us, Sergeant Milner, but Fred has some news; he won't tell me what it is; says he can only speak to you."

It was obvious by the boy's wide eyes that it was something important; Milner walked some distance away with him.

"Sir, it may be nothing to do with your boss, but I didn't want to upset Sam– _er_, Miss Stewart…" he lowered his voice,

"...Only, on the wireless this morning they said a body had been found on the beach at Greatstone; that the man was in civilian clothes, not in uniform."

Milner felt the earth shift under his feet, but hid his dismay; he signalled the two officers over, and repeated the report quietly.

"Inspector Mullen, would you be able to identify Mr. Foyle, if it were him?"

"Yes, of course, but – wouldn't you rather go?"

Milner glanced in Sam's direction and she looked over at him, puzzled and anxious.

"No; it's just a matter of ruling that out; I'm sure it's not him; I want to continue here."

tbc...


	6. Chapter 6

Getting away from the breakwater had been a tricky bit of business – he had an ingrained unwillingness to leave behind anything that might be of use and so, rather than cut the lines, had climbed out to untie them from the iron rings, and then had to leap back aboard before the boat drifted out from the rocks. He had a pole ready to push out to sea with, and then had hauled up the main sail to catch the breeze that pulled the craft away from the beach. Now he was several hundred yards off shore, with the sail properly trimmed, and, at comparative leisure, could settle beside the tiller and look about.

There were no other boats in view yet; gazing back at the chalk cliffs he saw the expected gun emplacement, but no soldiers. As he sailed farther out into open water he observed the land to the northwest shift and spread apart to reveal what seemed at first to be a wide bay. Some moments later a distant port came into view, surrounded by a great built-up area – a rather large city – and he squinted his eyes to make out the details: what at first seemed to be low grey rocks of a sea wall re-formed into massed warships.

"_Good god_, that's Portsmouth," he said aloud, and turned to look back at the coast of the Isle of Wight, where he had been stranded.

Readjusting his sense of perspective, he studied the rise and fall of the land above the shore.

"If that promontory is Bembridge…" he scanned southwards to his departure point, "then I must have been below…"

Foyle rolled his eyes heavenward at the realisation.

"Shanklin. Of course. But what's the connection, I wonder…"

With the knowledge that he had some eighty miles to sail to return to Hastings, he regretted not setting the jib – it would have given him more speed. At best he must expect the crossing to take more than seven hours; but if the wind dropped or changed direction, even longer…

He knew he wouldn't make it home within the usual twenty-four hour delay for opening a missing person's file – he certainly hoped Milner wouldn't think of notifying Andrew of his disappearance yet – but neither did he relish the thought of explaining his situation to the authorities at some nearer port, and having them telephone Hastings to report his whereabouts. His stubbornness or his pride wouldn't allow it.

No, instead he'd take the risk of fetching the second jib from below and getting it raised, then he would steer a direct course for Beachy Head, muster up all his sailing skills, and, even if it meant going wing-and-wing the whole way, he was determined to be in sight of Eastbourne by early afternoon.

* * *

Paul Milner was aware of a change in Ransley's manner; shortly after they had gone down to the cargo ships at the dock, he had suddenly become alert, tense and, if Milner was reading him right, disturbed by something he had seen. After further observation Milner revised this to 'disturbed by something he had _not_ seen': Ransley seemed concerned about something missing. Clearly not the 'Clara Belle' – he'd been aware of that yesterday and he undoubtedly had been the one that ordered the boat away.

Milner left Ransley inside the warehouse in the custody of two constables, and sent for Fred to join him on the pier.

The lad arrived looking eager to help. They sat down opposite each other on wooden crates.

"Fred, tell me everything you can remember about the 'Clara Belle' leaving the dock."

"Well, sir, I didn't see her leave the dock, I saw her when she was already down the river, just past the first bend." He pointed down the channel.

"I couldn't tell who was aboard, but I saw two crewmen. Mr. Elphick said it was Tom and George, didn't he?"

"Not exactly. You saw Tom and George carrying that rolled tarp to the docks, and then they were nowhere to be found after the 'Clara Belle' went out."

"Well, then it must have been them on the boat."

"That's what we call circumstantial evidence. It's likely, but we haven't proved it."

"Oh. And… you have to prove it to a judge?"

"That's right." Milner almost smiled at the boy's deeply furrowed brow.

"Was it unusual to see the boat go out?"

"I'd never seen her go out_ before_. I've been working here seven months. I thought maybe her engine had been removed and turned in for the war."

"Right."

"Only, she did get moved from place to place at the dock…"

"How do you mean?"

"Well, she would be in a different berth some mornings. Oh!" the boy was suddenly appalled at his mistake, "…Someone must have taken her out late in the day, after I'd gone home."

"Yes, perhaps someone did."

"I wondered why anyone had bothered moving her; she wasn't really in the way, and with the sailboat tied up to her, that would have been tricky –."

"Sailboat?"

"Yes, there was a little twenty-footer rafted onto the side; must've been poor old Mr. Smith's private boat. The 'Clara Belle' was towing it when she went out."

Milner sat back and rubbed his chin, unconsciously mimicking his Chief.

"I see."

He smiled at the boy,

"Well, thank-you, Fred, you've been very helpful. You said you'd started here…when, in April?"

"Yes, sir. It was Mr. Smith himself that took me on, just before he got the bad news about his son being killed on convoy duty south of Greenland – he was on the Destroyer_ Beverley_ – and then… having that stroke… It was a shame, that was. He was a nice man."

By twelve-thirty in the afternoon, Mullen had returned from the gruesome task of ascertaining that the body on the beach – not that of Mr. Foyle – was of a man of about twenty and possibly German.

The many constables, who had arrived on the scene that morning as eager and active as foxhounds, were standing in groups near the cars, or on the pier or by the warehouses, frustrated.

Not that they had had no results: contraband had been found in two other lorries that had been scheduled to depart today, and even in a cupboard hidden behind a wall panel in Elphick's office. But now they were under the strain of simply waiting for further orders.

In the books kept in the offices of the manager and foreman, discrepancies had been discovered in records of fuel consumption, bills of lading, basic accounting. Hutton gave his opinion that there was no great criminal mind behind it all, but that the illegal operation had begun in the summer and had rapidly grown beyond the capability of the man at the head of it.

As Mullen, Hutton and Milner, sitting on chairs in the Manager's office, discussed the accumulated evidence for the case and formulated the charges to be laid, Sam and Fred walked in with sandwiches from the pub up the road, and a thermos bottle – which Sam had learned to keep stowed under the seat of the Wolseley – filled with hot tea for them.

Sam's entire demeanour was one of barely suppressed curiosity and anxiety, but she knew better than to question the senior policemen. Milner wanted to take her into his confidence, but wouldn't do it in front of the other men; he gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. She and the boy left them to eat their lunch.

The telephone on the desk rang; he picked it up and was told that the 'Clara Belle' had been seen off Pevensey, travelling at a speed of ten knots.

"Right," he put down the phone and looked at his watch, "the boat should arrive at the river mouth within two hours. But the tide is just on the turn and the channel won't be navigable again until after three-thirty, so they'll have to wait."

"And so shall we." Mullen muttered in frustration.

In the yard, Sam and Fred wandered down to the dock again, Sam kicking a stone along before her unhappily,

"Oh, I wish I knew what their plans were – I don't understand why Sergeant Milner hasn't sent out a search party or something… They must have some idea of where to look."

"It does seem strange that everyone is still here, since they've finished their search..." Fred suddenly snapped his fingers and looked at her,

"They're waiting!"

"For what?"

"For the 'Clara Belle.' She must be on her way here."

Sam stared at him intensely,

"Would they bring Mr. Foyle back, after kidnapping him?"

"No, I don't think so; but they will know where he is, and they'll have to tell."

tbc...


	7. Chapter 7

The wind had kept westerly all morning, and Foyle had made good progress on the water. By early afternoon he was, indeed, off Beachy Head and would soon be in sight of Eastbourne. He'd not had to change course for any other boats, as all those he saw, whether Royal Navy or Coast Guard or civilian, passed well south of him or hugged the coast north of him. Nonetheless he had taken the opportunity to practise the necessary skills of coming about and tacking, and adjusting the sails, lines and rudder to find the best angle to the wind; after an hour or so he was able to feel when the sail was in danger of luffing and make the proper corrections.

He was, in fact, in his own quiet way, enjoying himself immensely: this was a more physically demanding variation on the exercise of skill and attention that he practised in fly-fishing. As the hours passed and his thoughts meandered down a number of paths, he considered whether he might find the means to take up sailing as a hobby, and he wondered if Andrew would find the sea more appealing than the river, on those future days when his son would visit him. He even speculated on the possibility of nurturing sea-loving grand-sons – or grand-daughters, for that matter.

But he was not unmindful of his circumstances and his surroundings: there was one boat whose movement had caught his attention, and whose progress he had been tracking. It was not part of the fishing fleet, nor of any other fleet; he'd watched it pass by every usual port of call from Portsmouth eastwards at speed, and its shape and colouring were familiar. He had approached comparatively slowly on its starboard stern and the boat was now two miles ahead of him; he couldn't make out the name at this distance and he wished he'd had a pair of field glasses or a spyglass, but no such luck.

When the boat passed by Hastings and then turned its bow another point north, he was certain it was heading for the River Rother. Could this be the boat – and the men – that had left him at Shanklin? It was possible, as they wouldn't have been able to return any sooner than himself, given the blackout and the lack of navigation aids…

Foyle put aside his plan to sail into Hastings – in truth, he hadn't quite worked out where he could land the sailboat anyway. If he remembered the tides rightly, the river would not be navigable for another – he checked his wristwatch – hour at least. He'd be able to catch up to them as they waited on the tide, but now he felt he should be cautious and hang back so as not to draw their notice. He'd make for the cover of Fairlight Cove, and then as the boat went behind the seawall into the river, hurry along to be ready to follow them upstream. There was still a good fresh breeze to fill the sails and carry him there swiftly.

* * *

Sam's frustration and anxiety over waiting for the policemen to do something towards beginning a search for Mr. Foyle had been replaced with an impatient anticipation of waiting for the mysterious 'Clara Belle' to appear on the river. She and Fred had hung about on the dock, in the fine warm October sunshine, with a breeze ruffling their clothes, for more than an hour, straining their eyes to see anything coming up the widening channel. A succession of constables had joined them, chatted, offered encouragement, watched for a time and then returned to the yard. Eventually Paul Milner sauntered down, having given his instructions to various officers, and stood vigil with them, his calm, quiet manner radiating authority.

As she looked up at the tall young sergeant it occurred to Sam that he had managed this trying crisis with great professionalism, and that he had, perhaps, grown from the experience: these were the sort of challenges that shaped a man's career. She felt, whatever the outcome – and she could only imagine a successful one – that Paul could be proud of himself, and that she was proud of him, too. He turned and caught her expression and gazed at her with a small reassuring smile, and she was certain he understood her thoughts.

A moment later the thoroughly dedicated and watchful young Fred called out,

"Sir! That's the 'Clara Belle!' She's coming in!"

Milner followed the line of the boy's extended arm to see a sturdy wooden boat a quarter mile away coming up the Rother. Wasting no time, he had one of the uniformed officers take a position within the tool shed; he directed the other constables and Sam to stay out of sight inside the nearest warehouse. Conferring briefly with Fred, he sent the boy down on the dock to await the boat, and then stepped back into the shadow of the tall building.

Fred played his role well, shifting crates around the dock busily as the boat approached, and then ambling down unhurriedly to catch the lines as it edged past the cargo boat and alongside the pier. A voice on board called out over the low rumble of the engine,

"Where're the men, Freddie?"

"Tea break, George."

"What – all of 'em?"

"Seems so." Then the boy added for effect, "Lazy sods; the minute the boss turns his back…!"

The man serving as deckhand stepped off the boat and climbed up the ladder,

"What? Mr. Elphick's gone? Where?"

"Dunno, Tom…"

The skipper had come out of the wheelhouse and made his way up onto the pier,

"We'd best report in to Ransley, then. Come on, Tom."

The two began walking, and when they were halfway along the side of the warehouse a pair of constables appeared in front of them; they turned back only to be confronted by another constable and a tall, limping man, who addressed them sternly,

"George Fairley and Thomas Reid? We understand you've kidnapped Detective Chief Superintendent Foyle, and that you've taken him somewhere in that boat, the 'Clara Belle.'"

The two men were too shocked to answer and only gaped at all the policemen. Milner nodded to the constables, who proceeded to handcuff them. At his signal more officers and the two Inspectors appeared, bringing Ransley and Elphick out of the warehouse.

"The game's up, as you can see; cooperate with us and you'll do much less time than these two are facing."

Milner watched the men carefully and saw a threatening glare from the Manager, a pleading stare from the Foreman, stony defiance from George; but a succession of emotions flickered across Tom's face – fear, anger and finally disgust at his two bosses; the sergeant put his money on that one coming clean first. He indicated to Inspector Mullen that he should take him away for a private interview, while Hutton and a pair of constables took George.

Meanwhile the sergeant directed the search of the 'Belle,' with Ransley and Elphick, secured to the mast of the crane and guarded by constables, looking on. Milner kept an eye on the disgruntled suspects – something new had disturbed Ransley: his eyes were darting around the docks with a distinct expression of alarm.

Sam and Fred watched from the pier as a heavy canvas tarp was discovered in the hold, and when the constables brought it out and it was unfolded on the deck, Milner pointed out the dried but recent bloodstain to the prisoners.

"This is enough evidence to add a charge of attempted murder of a police officer. If you continue to refuse to cooperate, and Mr. Foyle should die as a result of his injuries, you will both hang. It would be in your best interest to persuade your men to tell us where they've taken him. Unless either of you can tell us."

Milner could see that Elphick was now wavering, so he decided to use the divide and conquer approach, and had a constable take the Foreman up to Inspector Hutton, leaving the Manager to stew alone. He spoke to a constable on the 'Clara Belle,'

"Go into the wheelhouse; if there is a chart open on the table bring it to me just as it is."

Then, with a warning glance to Sam and a nod to Fred, he stood over the Manager,

"You're missing something, Mr. Ransley; something the others don't seem to be worried about. I think it's the sailboat that was tied up to the 'Clara Belle'"

Ransley flinched in surprise, and then tried to make his face a blank, though Milner could see his eyes bulging slightly.

"An old sailboat can make a useful office for secret business, and a good hiding place for things you don't want others to know about… until it's unexpectedly towed away. Now, what if George took it into his head to scuttle it at sea, Mr. Ransley?"

Milner saw the man's mouth tighten into a hard line, but the sweat stood out on his forehead.

"That might have been a clever plan for disposing of an inconvenient police officer… and if you hadn't given George specific orders, because you were interrupted by the arrival of the police officer's driver…_ you_ might be off the hook for murder, though_ he_ might think he's been very clever. How was George to know anything valuable was onboard? Bad luck for you, though, the loss of whatever it was you were keeping secret from the others."

He moved away from the prisoner as the constable brought two navigation charts and held them out for him to study; one showed the lower reach of the River Rother, the other was folded to show the eastern coast of the Isle of Wight. There were pencilled notations about depths and currents in the area off the village of Shanklin.

Milner looked up to see Inspector Mullen approaching, and so, taking the charts from the constable, walked up to join him by the warehouse door.

Mullen smiled briefly, and reported in a confidential tone,

"Thomas Reid has told all. They've left Mr. Foyle on a small boat, a sailboat, tied up to a breakwater on the Isle of Wight."

"Off Shanklin, according to this chart."

"Ah, well done. The danger is that Reid believes Foyle was still unconscious when they left him, and that the boat might not have been entirely seaworthy. He said it had taken on water by the time they'd towed it there, and neither of them bothered to pump it out before leaving."

Milner consulted the chart in his hand and calculated,

"At high tide the boat would be in… sixteen feet of water." He swore an oath and turned away to stare across the pier where Ransley sat.

Mullen said,

"I'll get on the phone and find the fastest way to get someone there."

But he saw that Milner wasn't listening; the sergeant's attention was riveted on something beyond the dock. Mullen looked in the same direction.

There was another boat coming up the river: it was a small sailboat.

Both men raced down to the pier, drawing cries of surprise from Sam and Fred, who then turned to see what was the matter. One of the constables on the 'Clara Belle' looked around as well, gave a shout, and then told his mate to go up and tell the others. When Sam realised who was in the sailboat her throat constricted and she wept with relief, which caused Fred no small amount of confusion and discomfort.

As the boat progressed slowly towards them in the light wind, everyone watched the figure of the hatless man in the cockpit. He adjusted the lines and swung the boom across, then pushed on the tiller and the boat turned neatly towards the Shanklin Warehouses dock. When he looked up and saw the crowd gathering on the pier, the man raised his hand to smooth his hair down in a familiar gesture, and then gave a small salute of greeting before returning his attention to the boat.

Until now, Milner had not attempted to descend the ladders from the pier to the dock, but he scrambled down and set an example of agility for the two constables and the Inspector who followed him.

Foyle dropped the mainsail and then, as the boat neared its final destination, lowered the foresail and let the river current carry the craft in to nudge gently alongside the dock. It was as neat a bit of boat handling as any of them had ever seen.

Milner caught the line that the Chief threw to him and secured the boat amidships; Mullen got hold of the bow line and made it fast; a constable tied up the stern. The sergeant extended his arm to help Foyle, who, a little weary from the long journey, grasped it and stepped stiffly up over the side and onto the dock.

There was a sudden roar of cheers and applause, and both men turned in surprise to see the assembled crowd, including the four sullen prisoners, up on the pier. Milner, still holding his Chief's arm, smiled and said quietly,

"Welcome back, sir. We were all worried."

Foyle, bruised, sunburnt, salt-stained and bewhiskered, scratched his temple self-consciously,

"Oh, _er_, just a spot of bother."

tbc...


	8. Chapter 8

Seated on a chair in the warehouse, with a cup of hot tea and a handful of biscuits, and surrounded by well-wishers, Foyle was a little overwhelmed at the impromptu reception. He was astonished to see Mullen and Hutton, who had begun as constables when he'd been Detective Inspector at Hastings.

They related to him the short version of what everyone had been doing since his disappearance, and he was glad to hear their praise of his sergeant's leadership throughout the investigation, which, he agreed, was very nearly complete. He asked Hutton to retrieve the leather bag from the sailboat's galley cupboard, and when it was brought its contents were shown to Milner.

"Well, that explains why Ransley was so disturbed at the missing sailboat; which, by the way, we knew nothing about until this lad," he motioned Fred forward, "told us about it."

He put a hand on Fred's shoulder,

"This is the boy who also gave us the tip on the 'Clara Belle.' He's been very helpful; I think we'd best deputise him."

Foyle was pleased that so many had rallied together to carry on the investigation, and rather touched, if somewhat embarrassed, at their concern for him. But he had not failed to notice that Sam had hung back from the crowd; now he remembered his impatient curtness when he'd left the station – was it only yesterday morning? – and he wondered if her coolness was perhaps owing to her feelings being hurt. He wanted to apologise, but there were so many people about…

After he had convinced everyone that he had no intention of allowing them to take him to hospital, or to go to anyone else's house to be watched over, he asked for her,

"Where's Sam?"

She approached dutifully, and it was then that he saw her teary, puffy eyes and her chastened expression, and he felt dreadful about it: had she been blaming herself for all this?

He cleared his throat and announced to everyone,

"Well, you can see what comes of going off without my driver. Sam, next time tell me to _bloody well wait_ until the car's available, will you?"

In the burst of laughter that followed his remark, no one else heard Sam's grateful answer,

"Yes, sir. I-I will, sir."

And only Paul Milner saw her tremulous smile and quick, devoted glance into her boss's eyes, and heard Foyle's quiet request,

"Can you take me home, Sam?"

* * *

Back at his house Sam had seen to the wound on his head, and he had submitted patiently as she tutted over his bruises and grazed knuckles, commiserated over his bedraggled condition, and then fixed him a good dinner, which they shared. She reluctantly departed when he had gently refused her offer to stay the night in the spare bedroom, but insisted on taking his coat and suit away with the promise of having them cleaned as soon as possible. After a hot bath and a laborious shave, he fell into a deep sleep, despite the odd sensation that his bed was rocking on invisible waves.

On the next day, Foyle had decided, it would be justifiable to take the morning off, and he had instructed Sam to call for him at one o'clock, which was just as well because he didn't wake until half-past ten. While dressing he was somewhat disturbed at the soreness of the muscles across his back, shoulders, arms, and even in his hands: he made a promise to himself to undertake rather more strenuous regular exercise, then he put on his old topcoat and his second best hat, which now would have to serve as his best.

Back at the station at last, he was greeted warmly by each man he encountered on the way to his office. Milner was waiting to brief him on the wrapping up of the case.

"Well, sir, that bag of money hidden on the sailboat was just the ticket to get the others talking. Even Elphick didn't know about it; he's given us the particulars on the whole operation, on the promise of a shorter sentence than Ransley's. ...It wasn't as extensive an operation as I'd thought; the two men who kidnapped you, George Fairley and Thomas Reid, were the only others involved – except for suppliers. Their instructions from Ransley about you had been, _er_, more murderous than they were willing to comply with –."

Foyle raised an eyebrow and quirked his mouth to the side.

"…So Reid had the idea of simply getting you out of the way while the bosses destroyed all records that might be discovered in an investigation."

"Well, George Fairley wasn't entirely of the same mind, I'd say. And what's the connection to the Isle of Wight?"

"The owner of the business, a Mr. Smith, grew up near the village of Shanklin and still has property there; after he suffered a stroke, George and Tom were sent to fetch both the 'Clara Belle,' his deceased son's boat, and the sailboat, so that someone could keep an eye on them in his absence. That seems to be what gave Ransley the impetus for running a smuggling operation from the warehouse docks."

"Right. Well, despite the… inconvenience to myself, I'm very pleased that you were able to carry on and bring the matter to a successful conclusion, Milner. Well done."

"Thank-you, sir; we're just glad to have you back at the helm –."

The Chief cocked an eyebrow at him.

"_Er_, so to speak."

Milner smiled and added,

"And on such an important occasion, as well. Would you mind coming downstairs for a moment, sir?"

Foyle looked puzzled, but Milner rose, opened the office door and waited expectantly.

In the staff kitchen a small crowd had gathered; there were plates of food, a bowl of punch, and there was a largish box in a prominent place on the table.

"What's all this about, then?" He asked quietly.

Sam came forward,

"It's a birthday present, sir!"

The Chief looked genuinely surprised,

"Oh, _er_, is that the date? How did you know?"

Milner admitted uncomfortably,

"Well, sir, I did look into your personnel file, in the event that we had to open a missing person's report…"

Foyle looked at him as if to say,_ 'O ye, of little faith.'_

"I see."

"Open it, sir!" implored Sam.

As the small crowd watched in happy anticipation, Foyle lifted the box lid and gazed at the handsome new trilby, the side of his mouth twitching between amusement and another emotion none of them had seen from him before. He took up the hat, bowed to place it on his head, and paused, his face hidden by the brim. There were a few moments of quiet expectation, and then he looked up, smiling, to show the full effect. After a smattering of applause and appreciative noises, he gave a mock stern look and said,

"All right, back to work, you lot."

But everyone who could stay wished him many happy returns and enjoyed the refreshments before dispersing to their proper places to carry on, business as usual.

An hour later, as he worked on his notes to add to the charges against the four suspects, Sam knocked on his door.

"Sir, I thought you'd like to know; Inspector Mullen visited Mr. Smith this morning and took Fred with him. It seems Mr. Smith is in need of a private nurse, and so Fred and his mother are to move in to his house with him when he's discharged from hospital."

"That's very good news. I understand Fred was very helpful?"

"He was, sir. And he says, 'any time we need a sharp-eyed bloke on the spot, he's our man.'"

Near the end of the day, on his way up from the lower floor, Milner caught Foyle peering through the bars into the evidence locker; the two men stood together gazing at the battered grey trilby on the top shelf.

"…I don't suppose I could have my old hat?"

"It's evidence, sir. Perhaps after the trial."

"I couldn't just… brush the mud off it?"

"That would be_ tampering_ with evidence, sir."

Foyle grimaced,

"Right… right… Still, it's a shame to spoil it."

"Sorry, sir."

"It would do for fishing, you know…"

"Or… sailing, perhaps…?"

Foyle looked up with a small wry smile and nodded,

"Well, perhaps."

As they made their way along the corridor, Foyle asked,

"Have you, _er_… ever done any sailing, Milner…?"

The End.


End file.
